The ponderous gate swung open, and we found ourselves in a court filled with shrubs and creepers, which climbed all over the front of the villa, almost concealing its architecture. The vines and shrubs were covered with blossoms, and gave out a delightful fragrance—that divine perfume, beyond the reach of the chemist’s art, which can be distilled nowhere but in the mysterious laboratory of Nature.

Seated on stone benches and rustic iron chairs, enjoying the moonlight, were several persons who rose as we entered and came forward to welcome Father Moreno with joyful exclamations. They noticed no one but him at first, and that gave me time to study them attentively. My uncle was foremost, dressed in a white duck suit, and by his side was a young lady of medium height, of light and elegant figure, who uttered a cry of joy on seeing the father. On the left was a man pretty well advanced in years, bald and with a mustache—the father-in-law. Behind him stood a very young, little priest, almost a boy; and near him a tall girl of about sixteen years, and a little girl who could not have been more than twelve.

They all gathered around the father, bidding him welcome with a confusion of voices. At last they remembered that I was in existence, and my uncle introduced me:

“SeÑor de Aldao, this is Benigna’s son, my nephew,—CarmiÑa, this is Salustio.”

My future auntie looked at me abstractedly. All her attention was absorbed by the father. Nevertheless, after a little while she turned toward me, and asked whether my mother would come, for she much desired to see her. I made excuses for my mother’s absence as well as I could, and SeÑorita Aldao returned to her attentions to the friar. “Wouldn’t you like some water, orangeade, ale, sherry wine? A glass of milk? A sip of chocolate?”

“My child!” cried the father, pushing her back familiarly, as one would brush away a fly, “If you want to give me something I would wish,—good gracious, give me half a cigarette, although it were of straw!”

In the twinkling of an eye two cigar-cases flew open, and SeÑor Aldao and my uncle offered him their cigars, and several matches were immediately lighted. My uncle’s Havana cigar was given the preference.

“You may well enjoy smoking it,” said he, for he was fond of praising what he gave away. “It came from no one less than Don Vicente SotopeÑa.”

“Ah, of course he wouldn’t have any but the very best—plague on him!”

“Sit down, sit down and smoke,” they all besought him.

Seated at last, with the cigar between his lips, he proceeded to answer the questions of each and every individual. They wanted to know when he had left Compostela, and how were the other friars, and what was going on there.

I sat a little apart from the rest, overcome by a singular feeling of abstraction, a sort of mental intoxication. Reclining on a bench, I perceived that at my back the branches of a magnificent creeper were spread like green silk tapestry. It was the Datura, or “Trumpet of the Day of Judgment”; and it did not require a very vivid imagination to compare its gigantic white blossoms to cups full of exquisite perfume. A double jasmine, entwined with the Datura, stretched itself along the wall. Those pleasant odors, set astir by the light breeze, mounted to my brain and quickened my young blood, inspiring me with an eager longing for love,—an ethereal, pure, and deep love—an absorbing passion, ready to defy all laws, both human and divine. When we make a change of abode,—even though our fortune may not be altered,—when we enter a circle of unknown people, our imagination and self-love become excited, and those to whom we were totally indifferent yesterday, suddenly become of interest to us, and we feel anxious in regard to the opinion they may form of us, and to the feelings with which we inspire them.

The government official, the army officer, who is sent to a distant post, has a vague idea of the place where he is going to reside. But scarcely has he set foot in it, when the past is blotted out, and the present rules over him with the great power of the actual, and the stimulus of the novel and unknown.

In that way, excited by my new horizon, though somewhat mortified in the bottom of my heart because they paid no attention whatever to me, I imagined that those people, barely seen for the first time, strangers to me a few moments before, would yet have some decisive influence on my heart or fortune. I began by imagining that in the bosom of that family, so peacefully gathered together enjoying the moonlight, a very strange moral drama was being unfolded, of which the friar undoubtedly knew the mystery.

There are everywhere dramas behind the scenes, and secret histories, I reflected, with my brain intoxicated by the delightful fragrance of the jasmine. At Josefa Urrutia’s house there in Madrid the drama has a grotesque form, but is none the less real. A famous farce might be made of Botello’s life and fortunes. If there is anything going on here, Father Moreno must know all about it. Why does this young lady, remarkable as she seems, marry my disagreeable uncle? Is it true that they treat her badly? No, for my mother herself, when I pressed her, confessed that that was a rumor without the slightest foundation. And these little girls I see here, what rÔles do they take? And SeÑor Aldao’s mistress, where is she? And that engaged couple, sitting in a spot so fitted to stir the senses and the imagination, are they in love with each other? And if they are not, why do they get married?

I was suddenly aroused from these reveries by the young priest, who approaching me said in a boyish voice and an unpleasant Galician accent:

“Pardon my curiosity, but are you DoÑa Benigna’s son?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The one who is studying to be an electric, magnetic scientist?”

At first I did not understand his poor attempt at wit, so he added:

“Who is studying to be an ingenious,—I mean, an engineer.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Well, I am glad to meet you. Do you want anything? Do you feel tired? Do you smoke?”

“And are you the parish priest at San AndrÉs de Louza?” I inquired, just to say something.

With the most unwarrantable familiarity the little priest put his hand on my head, and, forcing me to bow it till it touched my knees, he shrilled:

“Come down, come down, your Excellency, for I am not up so high as that. Parish priest! Oh, if you had called me one of the clergy, contentaverit mihi. I am still an apprentice, or, in other words, a raw recruit in the sacred militia.”

He sat down by me, and began to talk to me in the most nonsensical fashion, though I scarcely paid him any attention, because, in truth, my thoughts were quite otherwise engaged. Meanwhile the hour was approaching when the heavy dew, and the dampness which impregnates the air, makes it unpleasant in Galicia to remain out of doors. Our host arose and had us enter and go up to a little parlor, adorned with cretonne hangings; thence we passed into the spacious dining-room, where the supper was served by two attendants; one with the appearance of a rough country lout, the other somewhat more polished, both being under the direction of a fat old woman, who shuffled her feet as she walked, and who, in spite of the decay into which her attractions had fallen, I fancied must be SeÑor Aldao’s ex-mistress. The two girls that I had met in the court had vanished, and did not make their appearance either at the table or in the parlor.

I was seated opposite my uncle’s betrothed, and the lamp shone full on her face, so that I could satisfy my curiosity by gazing at her—fairly devouring her face, in fact. I at once acknowledged to myself that Father Moreno was right; she was neither beautiful nor plain. Her lithe, graceful figure was finer than her face; the latter having a somewhat sharp profile, and lacking the clear complexion and regular features which are the primary elements of beauty. But after a brief study, I came to the conclusion that if she was not handsome, she was at least very fascinating.

When she opened her black eyes, with their animated expression; when she smiled; when she turned in answer to some question, her mobile face became expressive, life flashed through all those features which I had imagined to be always cold and in repose, in spite of my having already seen in her photograph, by the light of the street lamp in Madrid, some indefinable revelation of spirit.

CarmiÑa Aldao laughed but seldom, and yet she did not appear to be melancholy. Her animation was that of the will. She even seemed demonstrative in the extreme when I gave her my little offering after supper, and praised the poor trinket in the most enthusiastic manner.

“What good taste! Look here, papa, Felipe! How cunning it is! And did you choose it yourself? Just think of it, a student! Ah, it is clear that you can be intrusted with commissions. Why, it is beautiful!”

Father Moreno also put in his oar, saying: “I declare it is beautiful, indeed. That’s what rich people can do, but we poor friars do not dare to be so extravagant. Our gifts are more simple—”

As he spoke, he went off in search of his traveling bag, his only luggage, which a boy had brought from San AndrÉs de Louza; and produced from its depths a pearl crucifix of the kind they bring from Jerusalem, which, though of modern make, shows the body of the Lord carved with a certain Byzantine stiffness. It was half a yard long.

“It is all that I can give you, my daughter,” he said. “This crucifix has touched the Stone of Golgotha, where our Lord’s cross was erected.”

The young girl did not reply, but with a rapid movement she bent over and kissed either the crucifix or the hand which offered it to her, I do not know which.

The friar went on bringing out from his bag a variety of rosaries, some of pearl, others of black olive-pits strung on a cord and not yet clasped into a circle. “These come from the olive-trees on the Mount of Olives,” he explained, while he separated and distributed them among those who were present. When it came to my turn, I must have made a movement of surprise, for the friar said, with stately courtesy:

“Don’t you want it? You must take things, remembering from whom they come; we are poor by vocation, so we cannot offer gifts of more material value, Sir Salustio.”

I took the rosary, somewhat embarrassed by the lesson he gave me. Meanwhile some people had arrived from San AndrÉs to help pass the evening pleasantly, and make up a game at cards: the parish priest, the druggist, and an adjutant of the Marines. They offered me the fourth seat at the table, but I refused, as I feared I might lose, and find myself without money in a stranger’s house. My uncle sat down by his sweetheart and began to talk to her. Father Moreno went off to read his breviary, and I was again left to the tender mercies of the clerical apprentice.

“Where is my room?” I inquired. “Do you know? I should like to go to bed.”

“I don’t know,” he said; “but he who has a tongue—goes to Rome. Come on, take hold of my little finger.”

We went through the dining-room. The lamp was still lit, and the old woman was overlooking the operation of taking off the table-cloth, gathering up the glasses and plates, and putting away the dessert. I again fixed my attention on the retired sultana. She certainly must have been good-looking in former times, but now her scanty gray locks, her skin blotched with erysipelas, together with her great obesity, rendered her abominable. She appeared to be industrious, fond of scolding, but at the same time quite humble, and resigned to her life below stairs.

The little priest, preparatory to asking her a question, squeezed her right arm.

“Oh, SerafÍn, be quiet. What impudent tricks you do play! My, what a fellow!”

“Mulier, one can pinch you without danger; for you are at least proof against all temptation. Where is the cubiculo, or, in other words, bed-room of this young gentleman?”

“Right next to yours. May the Lord give the unlucky man patience to stand you so near! CandidiÑa, CandidiÑa, bring a light, and show these gentlemen their way.”

The tall maid before-mentioned appeared, candle in hand. She had a fair light complexion, innocent, and even slightly stupid features,—which somewhat resembled a wooden cherub’s; but her little eyes were speaking and mischievous, and she lowered them so that they should not betray her. She went on ahead, and we followed her up a steep staircase. She led us to our rooms up in the tower, which were separated from each other by a narrow hall. These rooms had not been made over, when SeÑor Aldao had the tower reconstructed, and were very old. Probably they were ordinarily used for storing chestnuts or squashes. The furniture consisted only of a bed, two chairs, a small table, and a wash-stand.

The girl left the candle on the table and said:

“That’s SerafÍn’s room, and this is yours. They are plenty large enough.”

“Even enough for you, too,” said the clerical apprentice, in a most impudent manner.

The girl winked and laughed aloud, while she waved her hand threateningly at SerafÍn; but immediately afterward she turned toward me and, assuming a most modest demeanor, asked, in a humble tone, whether I had any orders to give her. I said I should like to have some writing materials, and she replied that she would run and get them at once. As she carried off the candle, I was left almost in the dark, and could only see by the reflection of the moon. I went up to the window, and beheld, close by, a vast, dark mass stretching itself out; a sort of vegetable lake, which resembled a single tree—although I doubted it could be, on account of its size. Afar off, the river gleamed like a gray satin robe, dotted with silver spangles; the crescent moon was multiplied in its bosom, and the imperceptible sound of the lapping of the waves against the beach mingled with the soft night breeze, which shook the branches near by.

A cool, moist breeze caressed my cheeks. CandidiÑa interrupted my meditation, stealing in without knocking at the door. She brought in one hand an inkstand, almost running over; and in the other, besides the candle, paper, envelopes, a stub of a pen, and a cornucopia filled with sand.

“Aunt Andrea says that you must excuse us for having everything so topsy-turvy. She says that to-morrow, without fail, she will give you the sand-box. She says that in the country one must overlook a great deal.”

I began to gather things together preparatory to writing to Luis Portal, but the girl, instead of going off, remained standing there, gazing at me as if my person and my actions were matters of great curiosity. When she peeped over my shoulders to see how I arranged my paper, she said, with almost childish surprise, and with the sweet accent peculiar to the people who live on the seashore of Galicia:

“Oh, are you going to write to-night, when it is so late?”

A capricious fancy flashed through my imagination, a thrill ran along my veins, which I repressed with the comparative effort needed to subject purely physical impulses.

“Be a little careful, Salustio. You are excited to-day. Go very slowly.”

Then, in order to say something to the girl, I asked:

“Is that a single tree I see from the window?”

“Why, don’t you know it is the Tejo (the yew-tree)?”

“A single yew cover that immense space! Santa BÁrbara! It must be at least half a league in circumference.”

“Half a league! How absurd! Don’t exaggerate so. It is not half a league from this place to San AndrÉs. But I tell you it is three stories high.”

“Three stories in a tree!”

“Oh, it’s so, you’ll see! One is the ball-room, the other is where they take coffee, and from the third you can see a great deal of land—and the river, and everything.”